n, had been
struck with the beauty of Leoline. Prevented by his oath from
marriage, he allowed himself a double license in love, and doubted not,
could he disengage the young knight from his betrothed, that she would
add a new conquest to the many he had already achieved. Artfully
therefore he painted to Otho the various attractions of the Holy Cause;
and, above all, he failed not to describe, with glowing colours, the
beauties who, in the gorgeous East, distinguished with a prodigal
favour the warriors of the Cross. Dowries, unknown in the more sterile
mountains of the Rhine, accompanied the hand of these beauteous
maidens; and even a prince's daughter was not deemed, he said, too
lofty a marriage for the heroes who might win kingdoms for themselves.

"To me," said the Templar, "such hopes are eternally denied. But you,
were you not already betrothed, what fortunes might await you!"

By such discourses the ambition of Otho was perpetually aroused; they
served to deepen his discontent at his present obscurity, and to
convert to distaste the only solace it afforded in the innocence and
affection of Leoline.

One night, a minstrel sought shelter from the storm in the halls of
Liebenstein. His visit was welcomed by the chief, and he repaid the
hospitality he had received by the exercise of his art. He sang of the
chase, and the gaunt hound started from the hearth. He sang of love,
and Otho, forgetting his restless dreams, approached to Leoline, and
laid himself at her feet. Louder then and louder rose the strain. The
minstrel sang of war; he painted the feats of the Crusaders; he plunged
into the thickest of the battle; the steed neighed; the trump sounded;
and you might have heard the ringing of the steel. But when he came to
signalise the names of the boldest knights, high among the loftiest
sounded the name of Sir Warbeck of Liebenstein. Thrice had he saved
the imperial banner; two chargers slain beneath him, he had covered
their bodies with the fiercest of the foe. Gentle in the tent and
terrible in the fray, the minstrel should forget his craft ere the
Rhine should forget its hero. The chief started from his seat.
Leoline clasped the minstrel's hand.

"Speak,--you have seen him--he lives--he is honoured?"

"I myself am but just from Palestine, brave chief and noble maiden. I
saw the gallant knight of Liebenstein at the right hand of the imperial
Conrad. And he, ladye, was the only knight whom admir